Just as I Am
Authors: Kim Vogel Sawyer
B
OOKS BY
K
IM
V
OGEL
S
AWYER
What Once Was Lost
The Grace That Leads Us Home
Echoes of Mercy
JUST AS I AM
PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS
12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200
Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921
All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
eBook ISBN 978-1-60142-589-8
Copyright © 2013 by Kim Vogel Sawyer
Cover design by Kelly L. Howard
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, New York, a Penguin Random House Company.
WATERBROOK and its deer colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.
2013
v3.1
And the L
ORD
shall help them, and deliver them:
he shall deliver them …, because they trust in him.
—Psalm 37:40
Contents
Chapter 1
Brambleville, Kansas
April 1902
O
h, her hair! Daisy Forrester slapped the brush onto the scarred top of the bureau and glared at her reflection in the mirror. Why hadn’t she left it alone? All the brushing, intended to tame her flaming-red coils into a sleek, smooth cap, had instead created a wild, fuzzy mess. Turning from the mirror, she dug a faded calico bonnet from the top bureau drawer and jammed it over her head. She flicked a hopeful glance at the mirror. Yes, the bonnet covered her hair.
But of course it didn’t hide her plain face.
Closing her eyes, she tied the bonnet strings so tightly they cut into the underside of her chin. But she didn’t care. If she found no pleasure in her own reflection, why would anyone else want to look upon her? The tighter the bonnet, the more of her it would hide. Her morning toilette complete, she trudged to the bed and poked Marion on the shoulder. She might have poked a little harder than was necessary to waken her roommate, but the long locks of spun gold spilling across Marion’s pillow seemed to mock her.
Marion sat up with a start, her big blue eyes blinking in confusion. Her bleary gaze settled on Daisy. First she squinted, then she formed an
O
of surprise with her rosy lips, and finally she began to laugh. “What do you have on your head?”
Daisy fingered the unembellished brim of the gray calico bonnet—the ugliest one from the last “benevolence barrel” sent by ladies from town—and scowled at the younger girl. “Are you so sleepy you don’t recognize a sunbonnet when you see one? It’s time to get up. This is your week to help with breakfast.” Daisy helped with breakfast every week. And with lunch, supper, gardening, sewing, rocking the babies … Whatever task Ma Jonnson needed, Daisy did without a word of complaint.
Marion flopped back against the pillow and groaned. “I hate kitchen duty. I’d rather work in the barn.” Propping herself up on her elbows, the ten-year-old sent a hopeful look at Daisy. “Do you think my new parents will let me help with the horses and cows instead of making me cook and wash dishes?”
The innocent question stabbed Daisy. During her nine years at the Dunnigan Orphans’ Asylum, she’d watched dozens of children skip out the door, holding hands with their adoptive parents. But not once had anyone indicated a desire to make her their daughter. Parents only wanted petite, comely children like Marion, not gangly, homely ones like Daisy.
“I think most people who adopt girls your age want help in the kitchen.”
Marion’s bright expression faded. Twin tears winked in her eyes.
Daisy hung her head as guilt smote her. Just because no one wanted her didn’t mean she should be spiteful toward those who were wanted. She sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed Marion’s thick, tangled locks from her cheek. “But didn’t I hear your new father tell you that you’d have a pony at your house? So I’m sure you’ll have time in the barn, too.”
The tears disappeared, and Marion’s smile returned. “I can’t wait until the end of the month when I get to go to my new house and have my very own pony. It’ll be a girl pony, and I’ll name her
Daffodil. I’ll ride her every day, and I’ll feed her carrots or apples, and I’ll braid her mane, and she’ll love me so much she’ll never leave me.” The girl’s tone turned dreamy.
A shaft of pain pierced Daisy’s middle. No matter what she did, no matter how helpful she was or how cheerful or how good, no one had ever loved her enough to remain in her life. Not her father, who’d left before she was even born, nor her mother, who disappeared after leaving her with her grandparents. Not Grandma and Grandpop, who delivered her to the asylum’s porch and rode away without a backward glance. Not even Ma and Pa Jonnson, who’d told her only last night she’d have to leave the asylum when her sixteenth birthday arrived next month. They’d seemed sorrowful, and she understood why. As the oldest of the orphans residing beneath the asylum’s roof, she carried the greatest responsibility. Of course they’d miss her helping hands. Just as they’d missed Robby’s help with the farm work when he’d left almost a year ago.
Thoughts of Robby brought a second jolt of reaction, but this one of bittersweet remembrance. Pa Jonnson had branded Robby a rapscallion. During his four years at the asylum, he’d been taken in by families three different times, but they always brought him back, claiming he was incorrigible.
Rascal or not, Daisy had loved him from the first moment he’d stepped over the asylum threshold and sent a disparaging glance across everything … except her. When he’d seen her, his narrow face had broken into a grin, and he’d tromped right over and given one of her tight curls a light tug. “I like you,” he’d proclaimed. “You an’ me are gonna be friends. I can tell.”
She let her eyes drift closed, remembering how he’d confided that he acted up just so the folks would bring him back … to her. Oh, how she missed him. He wrote faithfully every month, and she treasured his letters more than anything else she possessed. But sitting there mooning over Robby wouldn’t get breakfast fixed.
Daisy rose and headed for the door. “Hurry now. Dress and come down. I can stoke the stove and fry the hot cakes on my own, but I’ll need your help setting the table and pouring the milk.”
“Yes, Daisy.”
Daisy waited until Marion tossed the covers aside and climbed out of bed before leaving the small room that had been her home for more than half of her life. What would she do next month when she was too old to remain at the asylum? She’d spent most of her sleeping hours lying awake, considering the question, and as she lit a fire in the stove’s belly, mixed a huge batch of nutmeg-laden hot cake batter, and heated lard in preparation for frying crisp cakes, she continued to seek an answer.
Her pondering was forced aside when the children—currently seventeen orphans in residence, plus Ma and Pa Jonnson’s trio of stairsteps—clattered into the dining room and filled the long benches on both sides of the table. Ma Jonnson joined Daisy in the kitchen, filling platters with steaming hot cakes and carrying them to the dining room. Marion splashed milk into tin cups for everyone while Pa Jonnson circled the table, ascertaining napkins were in place before breakfast began.
The morning cacophony, thundering yet familiar and somehow joyful, filled Daisy’s ears and raised a wave of confused emotions. This was her home, her surrogate family. Yet it wasn’t a real home or family. How could she fear leaving when she’d never wanted to stay? Her tangled feelings made no sense.
When everything was on the table, Daisy slid into her spot in the center of the toddler bench so she could help the smaller children. From his chair at the head of the table, Pa Jonnson cleared his throat, and the chatter quieted.
Daisy bowed her head in readiness for the orphanage leader’s morning prayer.
“Daisy?”
Startled, she peered at her surrogate father through the tunnel of the bonnet’s brim.
He winked. “Would you please remove your hat? Then I’ll pray.”
A titter made its way around the table. She must look ridiculous wearing a sunbonnet indoors where the only sunshine was two slanted beams filtering through the lace curtains on the window. But she’d look even sillier without it, considering what she’d done—or tried to do—to her hair that morning. Why, oh why couldn’t her bright-colored locks lie smooth and feminine across her head? Wasn’t it enough she was taller than a girl should be, so skinny the boys called her Beanpole when the Jonnsons weren’t close enough to hear, with skin so pale and colorless people always thought she ailed? Couldn’t she at least have lovely flowing hair like every other female from Ma Jonnson down to two-year-old Emily?
Ma Jonnson prompted, “Quickly now, Daisy. The food is growing cold.”
Everyone had joined hands. She alone remained unlinked to the chain. Sadness welled up inside of her. Hadn’t she always been unlinked? Pulling in a breath, she yanked the bow loose and slipped the bonnet from her head. At once laughter exploded from the opposite side of the table where the nine six- to eleven-year-olds sat in a row. Two of the oldest boys pointed at her, openly guffawing. Most of the girls covered their mouths to muffle the sound of their merriment, but it still came through, harsh and grating and hurtful.
Daisy pulled the bonnet back into place and clambered out of her seat as Pa Jonnson smacked his palms together and ordered, “That’s enough!” The children’s laughter changed from raucous blasts to restrained sniggers, and Pa Jonnson delivered a second order for them to behave themselves.
Unwilling to wait to see if they obeyed, Daisy ran straight through the kitchen and out the back door into the damp morning air. As she ran, the bonnet slipped from her head and bounced on her shoulder blades. She dashed across the dew-kissed grass to the big rock barn, where she finally collapsed in a stall with her arms wrapped around a sturdy upright beam. The hard, smooth length of wood couldn’t take the place of a person’s warm embrace, but at least it offered stability.
Her throat ached with the desire to cry, but crying accomplished nothing. Hadn’t she learned that truth when Grandma and Grandpop left? She’d wailed for two days until her raw throat couldn’t release even a whimper, but it hadn’t brought them back. So she’d given up the childish release of tears. Now, instead of crying she hugged the beam and clenched her teeth so tightly her temples throbbed. No one came after her, but it didn’t disappoint her. She hadn’t expected anyone to come. The younger children needed attention, and she was capable of taking care of herself.
Taking care of herself
. She sat up, her heart leaping in recognition. The years of being Ma Jonnson’s “best helper,” as the woman had always put it, had taught her housekeeping and cooking and gardening skills. Of course she knew how to take care of herself. She only wanted to stay because the asylum was familiar. But what might be waiting away from the Dunnigan Asylum and little Brambleville, Kansas? She knew what was waiting—or rather, who. Robby. In Sinclair. A flutter of excitement replaced the lump of dread.
In Robby’s last letter he’d told her all about the factory where he worked as a packager. He’d promised to send her a box of the chocolates manufactured in the Dinsmore’s World-Famous Chocolates Factory for her birthday, but wouldn’t he be surprised if she showed up to receive his gift in person? The thought of seeing her dear friend—her only friend—provided the impetus she needed to leave the orphanage now rather than waiting until her birthday.
Pulling herself up hand over hand on the beam, she made her plan. There was a mouse-chewed carpetbag in the basement no one would miss. She could send all her wardrobe items down the laundry chute to the washroom—Monday was wash day, so no one would wonder why she was down there—and pack the bag. Then after everyone had gone to bed, she could leave. Marion slept like a log, so she wouldn’t even notice Daisy wasn’t there until morning.
